I, Macnair
by Deathofme
Summary: [Rated M for violence and torture]Oh... it tastes sour and it tastes sweet. I, Macnair, have given my fallen comrade my special brand of mercy. SnapeHermione from Macnair's POV


**A/N Rated M for character death, violence and torture.**

A little excercise I wrote in the hopes of being able to get inside the Death Eater Macnair's mind, since he's itnriguing and there's barely anything about him in canon. It ended up being a bigger plot bunny than I expected, and also a lot darker than I had originally intended. Undertones of Snape/Hermione (originally written for the GS100 community).

(Also, this work is unbeta-ed. Once it is, I'll repost it, but for now beware of possible mechanical errors and typos)

Please read and review, it's the best fodder for writers. Enjoy!

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Merlin's pants, how do they expect me to work with all that _bloody screaming?_

The mudblood is still on her knees - Bella's grip can be very firm - and she won't shut up about justice or what have you. It grates my ears, so I give her a firm kick with the flat of my boot heel. It breaks her nose easily, and Snape is ready to have a fit. Good thing Lucius has him well under his heel; I don't want to be distracted.

There's blood smeared all over her face, and some still oozing from her nose. Her crying isn't making any of it better. I didn't think much of her looks before, but they're a right mess now. Wonder what Snape saw in her.

She can't scream anymore now, the blood from her nose is probably in her throat, I can hear the gurgle of her breathing. Oh yes... there's that hint of pink staining her teeth. She looks fierce now, like a trapped animal. Maybe if those are the sorts of bedroom eyes she has, I can see what turned Snape on. Her eyes are filled with such utter loathing, and she's still going on about how she will never give up the Potter boy. I give a cursory glance to Snape, who looks away. Oh… now _that's_ rich. He knows very well this isn't about Potter, and has left her in the dark.

The Dark Lord didn't let us have this little revel for the sake of finding out information on the Potter boy; he let us have some fun for our morale. Our activity has screeched to a standstill and the waters have been stagnant for too long for Death Eaters to remain content. We want some muggle-baiting, some sort of mischief to get up to. Snape here just happened to give us Christmas early, letting his indiscretions fall into our lap. Draco is being inducted sooner than expected for his good work.

I get out the knife from my boot. It's been so good to me. A steel alloy cured with deeply woven spells from the Spanish wizarding armory. It never stains. It never rusts. It never dulls.

I fondle her cheek with the cruel point, like I would with a tender fingertip. Has he caressed you here? Was this the secret moment between you two you'll take with you to your grave? Have I intruded upon something sacred?

I very well hope so.

The thin red lines trailing on her cheek cause her to flinch, but she bites back yelps. I commend her for it, but I'm not terribly impressed. They're as shallow as paper cuts, they must only sting.

The slap across her face surprises her, as I had meant it too. All the breath is knocked out of her in a stunned 'whoosh' and those paper-thin lines on her face should burn white hot now. I used the flat of my palm, it should have opened them wider.

_You bastard, you sick bastard!_ - I've never seen him so worked up in all my life. It surprises a laugh from me, but a disappointed one. That's what I had always admired about Snape; he was as steady as a rock. We were the two quiet shadows that flanked the doorway, watching everyone else in their pathetic giddy excitability. I thought we had that in common, comrade. Obviously not.

Well, you'll just have to relearn what you used to know. The hard way.

Her shirt is ripped from her body, and she cries out in protest, her arms helplessly trying to block all gazes from the view of her innocent breasts. The sound of the material ripping is a discordant note in the scene. Bella can be too enthusiastic at times, I'm annoyed with her for being so impatient, but I don't let it show. I don't want the harpy screeching at me about her pureblood entitlement nonsense. She can be a good little sycophant all she wants in front of the Dark Lord, but I'm not here to take any of her pap. Circe, if the littlest thing doesn't set her off.

So there's that much pacing thrown out of the window. There's a finesse to this, Lestrange, obviously something you lack in. No matter, I'll have to cover the ground she just lost me in a bolder move. I'll break the girl properly despite this juvenile intrusion.

I squat, resting on my heels, and come eye level to the mudblood girl. She breathes labouredly through her nose, the collapsed structure whistling unnaturally. Her breath hitches now and again as the blood pooled in her throat and mouth obstruct her air passageway. I just stare at her. That's all. I stare. I do not stare at her breasts - Narcissa was kind enough to remove her arms - I stare nowhere else other than her eyes. I can see the fear mounting in them. She's confused. She's unnerved.

Snape's cursing again, accusing me of mind games. Of course, of course, dear Severus, you'd recognize such a cheap tactic from me easily, isn't that what you used to ensnare your precious here?

Oh. My goodness me, that appears to have hit a deeper nerve than I expected. Really, Snape? _Really?_ Did you share a moment like this with the girl, so dubious in the integrity of its nature? How legitimate was your seduction of this girl? It surprises a laugh out of me. Little sap can still make the title Death Eater proud in some ways.

The knife I bury point end into the floorboards, within easy reach of my left hand so I can retrieve it at a moment's notice. I let one knee rest on the floor know, and lean in toward the girl. She squirms, trying to back away, but Bella and Narcissa hold her down. My hand reaches out, inching towards her face, and she throws her head from side to side wildly.

I cup the curve of her cheek, as gently and as tenderly as any lover. She tries to bite my fingers, but I chuckle. I don't feel anything through the dragonhide glove. Snape is making inarticulate noises of outrage somewhere in the background - I'm not paying attention. She just looks at me with those big, brown eyes; mingled with such fear and such eloquent despair, it makes my heart sing. It makes me want to treat her kindly, to soothe all her sorrows away. But the driving urge to harvest more of this delicious expression is the more pressing desire.

I hear a strangled yell, and something knocks the two Black sisters over. Snape must have pounced in a moment when Lucius was distracted, as he's on the floor, grasping for the Granger girl with broken hands. A swift _Crucio_ from Lucius has Snape twitching on the floor in agony, and the Granger girl screaming again. I flick my head in annoyance and signal for the magical torture to stop. You're missing the point here Malfoy, don't forget this session is about being a study in the good, old-fashioned ways.

Snape lies tortured on the floorboards, tremors still twitching through him. The mudblood girl is beside herself, weeping, and trying to cradle him. Bella is yanking mercilessly on her arms, trying to drag her away. I bark at her, almost losing my cool, and we shoot mutinous looks at each other. I make it clear that everyone is to take a step back and, of course, Bella is the last to comply. But she must. Even she knows this is my arena.

Freed, the girl has thrown herself on him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her blood smears against his face. I step over him, gazing down thoughtfully, and nudge his hand with my boot so that it lays palm upwards, and flat on the floor. I give it a second thoughtful glance, and then drive my knife clean through, pinning him to the ground.

He screams. She screams. Bella starts laughing. I stand back to enjoy my wonderful music.

She tugs at the handle, her hands slick with blood, making it difficult. Her sobs are mingled with the gurgles from her broken nose as her body attempts to find a way to breathe through the blood and the sorrow. He's still screaming, and she's still tugging desperately. It's the desperation that makes her panic, makes her lose all sense, makes her hands flap against her face, as she does not know what to do. It's beautiful, seeing someone react on such a base level. It's honest. It's raw. There has been no forethought of appearances or reputation to colour her response.

He finally regains his senses, the blinding haze of pain abating. He reaches over and pulls the knife out himself, taking charge. Is he always the one to take charge between them? Well, then he has no one to blame for this but himself.

He hugs her close to him with his uninjured arm, the knife still clasped in his fist. She cradles his hand with the gaping fleshy mouth buried in its center, still crying. Forever crying. How many tears must he have drunk from the corners of her eyes? He buries his face into her cheek, murmuring low sweet nothings, his eyes closed blissfully against her skin. They can say what they will of me, I can appreciate a moment of such tenderness as that.

Apart from me, every Death Eater in the room has their wands pointed at them. Snape is holding the knife in his hand, the mudblood girl having closed her eyes and buried her face in the crook of his neck. He's going through a reckoning, and a wolfish smile graces my features. Aah... see, boy, I know _exactly_ what you're running through your head. You can't possibly fight your way out of this, and you couldn't possibly injure someone with that knife and have it come out to any good. Bella is eyeing the girl hungrily, and we all know she has a penchant for lingering deaths.

He doesn't deign to kiss her, perhaps they've reached a stage where holding each other is enough. His injured hand comes up to caress her throat. She opens her eyes and looks at him. They are wild for a moment, stormy and afraid, but then calm. The guilt seeping from him is almost tangible. The hand holding the knife stirs and shifts.

They clutch wildly at each other, as if two people drowning. Bleeding, broken, destitute, in such inelegant states of disgrace, their limbs splayed unattractively on the floor, dignity stripped away, smeared with tears and snot that break any romantic illusion, shivering, and ugly. Ugly - the both of them. Not even charismatic in their portrait of despair like beautiful people would be, for we could mourn the destruction of something perfect. No, ugly, and fierce in their coda, hanging on to each other for dear life, unable to do without the other, ugly in their pain, ugly in their misery, ugly in their misguided need to touch the other... it doesn't repulse me. No other pair has proved to me more that they deserve each other.

He gives me a look, inquiring, not pleading. I'm intrigued. Doesn't stoop to begging, no, correction, doesn't stop pretending he isn't begging - which is still something. Bella has caught onto the implications of our silent exchange. She looks at me, enraged, but I hold up a hand to stop her from doing anything rash. She really can be so greedy, never waiting to take her turn. I nod curtly at Snape, letting him know no one will take the knife from him.

I, Macnair, have shown mercy.

But this makes me laugh. I laugh out loud, being the only one in the room to do so, though there is an undeniable smirk on Lucius' face. I have shown mercy, mercy - but really, what kind of absolution have I given Snape as he cuts the girl's throat swiftly and deeply, and then holds her violently shaking body tight against his own, blood splattering all over his neck and face? What kind of mercy have I given him, when, ultimately, he has to end his lover's life by his own damning hand?

The mercy of delusion.

The others step in, tightening the circle around him, their wands up and ready to administer his undignified, slow end, which will undoubtedly be a masterful display of humiliation.

I'll let him carry that delusion with him to his own end. What makes this whole affair sweeter is that he's a sharp man, and he knows exactly what he's done. He can only delude himself for so long. Already I can see he knows ending her life was just a pretty lie he needed to tell himself. That he knows telling himself it was for the better doesn't excuse the blood on his hands, the ugly mangled corpse in his arms- I can see he knows it was _selfish_ of him.

Oh... it tastes sour and it tastes sweet. I, Macnair, have given my fallen comrade my special brand of mercy.

FIN


End file.
